Contagious Desire
by blob80
Summary: "The question, love, is whether you want me enough to take the risk." -Undertaker/OC- She was stoic and uncaring. He was passionate and curious. Surely, they wouldn't have any interest in each other, but Undertaker had always prided himself in finding games to alleviate his boredom. This time was no exception. A dash of patience and a sprinkle of time—the game had only just begun.
1. Contagious Desire

_Disclaimer: I don't own Kuroshitsuji._

* * *

 _ **Contagious Desire © blob80**_

…

 _Fate offered her blessing,_

 _Serendipity brought us together,_

 _Coincidence gave us a push,_

 _And the rest, well, that's entirely up to us._

* * *

His laughter was infectious.

A high pitched cackle that pierced the air and made her smile, foolishly. Well… slightly.

But that didn't change the fact that a smile was still a smile.

But it was a sound that she hadn't heard in years. If her pride had been of lesser import then perhaps she could have admitted that she missed him. Missed his unrestrained and completely without inhibit personality. The all-knowing, almost lazy drawl he spoke in. Quiet, but not gentle. If she listened carefully then amidst his many jokes and ill-humored remarks lay only the grandest of advice. The likes of which only a centuries old being could give, the kind that if one bothered to decode the riddles and intricate wordplay they'd find something that would either considerably open up their eyes or make them want to close them forever. He spoke to others as if they were just ways to kill time – grim reapers had a lot of it, after all.

She would know.

Her finger ran down the curve of a large statue, over marble robes and maintained ruffles. It was larger than life – much like his legend. He was like the final boss, getting his own statue and all was just ridiculous. But even she couldn't deny that during the small blip of time he had been with them, he had been exceptional at his job. She raised her head to look up at the statue's face, going over a distinctly virile set of shoulders and a slender build until her eyes rested on a smiling man. His hair tied up as he donned a perpetual smile that not even the scar running diagonally across his face could distort.

She jumped down from the platform the statue stood on, brushing black hair aside as some of it attempted to get in her face and hinder her vision. She stood there for a moment, before sighing and looking down at her pointed shoes.

Cheryll Pernelia.

That was her name. Or at least, what it said in the records.

Grim Reaper. English Branch. Administrative Division.

Mere words on paper, cards, record books, printed out like it meant something – perhaps it did. But who really took note of reapers, anyway? Only other reapers. Mostly the ones whose pesky death scythes she had to fix, authorize, and whatever else the Reapers required of her. What good was it? What were these positions even for? Most reapers didn't even care for position. Sure, they followed and did what their superiors ordered, but in the end they still had an attitude and complained about every little thing imaginable. That trait reminded her of humans.

Always complaining, never satisfied.

She knew the significance of life. But the only thing she didn't understand was just what were they trying to live for? Making the most out of their limited lifespans so as to leave behind their _'mark of existence'_ in an already doomed world. Sooner or later, their legacies would fade. They'd be replaced until the only thing left was some embellished whisper rarely talked about in some third rate tavern. They were clinging to a doomed fate.

Fools, the lot of them.

Cheryll couldn't understand their reason. Didn't want to. Besides, how could she when she wasn't even of the same existence. To bring herself down to a mortal's train of thought was like asking a lion to become a housecat. Absurd. It was foolish to try understanding something she couldn't possibly comprehend. She wasn't excessively curious, nor was she striving to obtain knowledge unknown. She was content in her standing. Being in the administrative division kept her away from most of the hands on work. She usually lingered about in the archives, doing paperwork, watching old records, and more oft than she'd ever admit, looking at the sole statue that stood there.

She had digressed. How silly. Now, where was she?

Ah, yes.

She missed him.

Her old friend that had gone off, leaving without another look back. How long had it been? A decade? Two? Was the life of an undertaker really so fun, she wondered. Why did he want to leave? She knew he was bored, but still… To leave without telling her left a sort of hollow loneliness behind. A hole that still hadn't been occupied and she had no idea how to go about filling it. The first question that always came to mind was, ' _Fill it with what?'_

How selfish of him to leave her behind with this unbroken silence as he went off on some personal venture, born from some unplanned ambition that appealed to his odd sense of personal interest. Cheryll sighed, taking a seat at her desk and pulling a paper from a steadily growing pile beside her.

There was no use dwelling on it when there was work to be done.

* * *

 ** _Years Past_**

…

"You broke it," Cheryll said. Her expression schooled into blank and her voice dead of all inflection.

"I broke it," the gray haired man before her gave her a deceptively charming smile. Not even a hint of remorse on his face.

…

…

…

"Have you no sense?"

He laughed. Derisive and filled with mirth. So high pitched that it made her ears bleed and she resisted the urge to cover them. Was this really the legendary grim reaper that their branch was so proud of? She suddenly felt very sorry for the English Branch, doubting their sanity for all of an instant, before she gathered her wits and took his death scythe off his hands. The blade was snapped into three pieces and she wondered just how that happened. The scythe was surprisingly heavy. It was a wonder how he could carry it with such a lean frame.

"Can it be fixed?" He asked, following her as she disappeared deeper into the archives. He was slouching and Cheryll wondered if he was always like this. Perhaps he had a game face – no. He _must_ have had one. Who could take someone this lax seriously? Or was that part of his technique?

"It can," she answered, dropping the scythe on her table and handing him a fencing sword. "This will be your temporary replacement until I finish repairing it."

He didn't even try to hide his displeasure.

His smile immediately disappeared and in its place was a frown. He was frowning with all his might. "Is there… not another scythe?"

"No," her answer had been so quick that his shoulders slumped a little in defeat. He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, showing off a truly handsome face.

"Then I suppose this will have to do," he muttered, straightening. Chatoyant eyes narrowed and an aura of seriousness surrounded him as he brought out a tiny notebook from his pocket. "I'm late."

How professional.

At least, that was her initial impression.

Not even an hour later and that went down the drain.

"Is it fixed yet?" He asked, they still hadn't properly introduced themselves. His head was on his arms as he leaned on her table, humming away some random tune. It must've looked endearing to anyone that saw the sight, but he was just being annoying and by the look on his face, Cheryll knew that he was doing it on purpose.

Her eyes narrowed and she shot him a scathing glance. "No."

"When will it be done?"

"I just sent it in."

"… Do I really have to use this sorry excuse for a sword?" He pointed the Foil up at the ceiling. "It's like a needle. Imagine stabbing someone in the eye with this."

Cheryll raised an eyebrow at him. "Please refrain from doing so."

"You're so serious," he remarked, yellow green eyes shooting her a look. As if he could see right through her. "Or is it just that you lack drive?"

"Please don't analyze me."

"Don't worry," he tried to reassure. "I'm a good person."

Her hand stilled, no longer robotically doing paperwork. "Good people don't call themselves good."

He let out another bark of laughter. Clearly his sense of humor was deranged in some way because she couldn't see what was so amusing about her words. "I don't believe we've properly introduced ourselves," he smiled, placing his chin on his arms and rolling his head around. He was handsome, but this particular action only made him look cute – like an energetic little puppy. "What shall I call you, my dear?" He tapped the name plate on her desk. "Cheryll, perhaps? Cherry? I think grumpy stick suits you."

He chuckled at his own joke.

"Pernelia," she told him, meeting his gaze. "Shall I call you by your name –?"

He cut her off before she could say it. "I do adore nicknames, my dear."

She raised an eyebrow. So it seemed he totally disregarded her wish for him to address her regularly. "Shinigami, then."

"How boring," he said. Despite his words, the smile never left his face.

* * *

Years came and went, Shinigami obviously had more time on his hands than regular reapers in the Management Division because he spent practically a dozen hours lounging around in the archives near her office, sleeping on her desk, or baking these strange bone shaped cookies. Always whisking her away from her table to have tea with him at the strangest times. Though she grumbled about it and tried to reject his offer, she didn't hate it when he'd drag her out, completely uncaring. Disregarding whatever it was she had to do. Perhaps she should have – hated it, that is. But he'd give her that manic laugh as he told her about the latest cinematic record he watched with an excited gleam in his eye. The protest died in her throat at that point.

His death scythe had been repaired long ago and there was no more need for him to come here, but she had seen him digging around the archives as of late. Watching records late into the night, asking her for the records of certain people, and filling the archive with his deranged laughter.

"That stoic face of yours doesn't suit a reaper. You should try smiling," he said, relaxing against his seat. "Shall I tell a joke?"

Cheryll took a sip of tea. "I'd rather swallow fire than take an order from you." She had no idea how he was so energetic all the time. Was it the knowledge that he was an invulnerable presence? His flippancy? Whatever the case, it was reassuring in a way. He always had a smile.

They heard the soft sound of the door creaking open and they turned to see one of the Reapers from the Management Division showing a new recruit around. He looked young – if they had to describe it physically then he was in his early twenties. Neat black hair and he walked straight as a stick. His steps were quiet and refined. The new boy shot them a curious look, getting tiny stars in his eyes at the sight of Shinigami. He looked like he wanted to walk over, but he was called away, and the two left as abruptly as they had come.

"A new recruit," Cheryll sighed.

"He looks like the type that would be popular with other guys," Shinigami said, chuckling to himself.

Cheryll raised a skeptical eyebrow, before saying, "I'll have to see what kind of death scythe would work well with him."

"Good work as always," Shinigami said, grinning. "It seems you can never escape it."

"Not even during tea time," she agreed, carelessly shrugging.

"Are you bored here?" He suddenly asked, looking around the archives and taking it all in. He had watched many of the records stored here, but he could only guess that she had watched far more. It was part of their job description in the Administrative Division. Their job was to handle the death scythes, so most times they were tasked to watch hours of endless footage when asked to repair one or when told to pass judgment on a Reaper that had gone against the so called _rules._

"No," Cheryll answered.

"Aren't you curious about the humans?" He asked, still not meeting her gaze. He was staring at his statue, talking as though he were addressing an audience. His voice verging on theatrical. "About the records? Don't you have any desire to learn, to experience more than what you see here? Surely there's more to death than the so called _end,_ don't you agree?"

It was easy to talk to her. Her mind wasn't an assuming one and she didn't care for what he did, nor did she ask questions. In fact, she didn't have the desire to learn about anything. It was all a tad bit disconcerting, really. An anomaly he had never before encountered. She had no drive and worked because she felt like doing it. There was no goal for her. No greed, no desire, no passion. She knew the importance of life, yet she didn't care for it. An empty shell that was free to do what she wished because she didn't have the drawbacks of self-indulgence dragging her down.

Beautiful in her isolation.

What would happen if she suddenly fought against the current? If she were to want? If she used those hands to try and grasp? He was interested in seeing an expression of hope being born on her face, and that was why he stuck around. He was interested in seeing her grasping at desires she never wanted. He couldn't deny that that would be a truly amusing show. One he wouldn't hesitate to reserve front row seats to.

"No," Cheryll answered. That seemed to be her most favored word. "Death is death. Go against the natural flow and you'll anger that heartless god all those humans pray so ardently to. Up in his throne where he observes, leaving the dirty work to those like us."

"And if that throne is empty?" Shinigami asked.

"Then perhaps that is for the best," came her reply. Not missing a beat.

He smiled, finally turning to look at her. Lifting a hand, he brushed it against her cheek. Her eyes widened and so did his grin, but she didn't pull away. "Don't you want to experience the thirst of desire?"

"The…" She trailed off, taking a moment to try and find the words. "Desire of knowledge, of flesh, of _anything_ is detrimental and will only lead me to ruin."

"What a waste," he was so close that his breath fanned over her lips, staring piercingly into her eyes. "You have so many years to live, yet you choose to do so without passion."

She turned her head away from his tantalizing gaze, opening her mouth to sardonically say, "How observant of you."

He giggled.

It was a giggle straight from Hell.

* * *

"We have a strong connection – you and I," Shinigami suddenly spoke up from his position by her desk. He was leaning on it again. Arms folded with his chin on top.

She raised an eyebrow at him, as she grabbed another paper from the steadily decreasing pile. "I'd love to cut the cord."

"How mean," he said, closing his eyes and letting his thoughts take him some place far off – far away. Somewhere she couldn't reach. "I've noticed that they don't need me as much anymore. It makes me feel melancholy…" he trailed off, humming some tune under his breath before he continued. "I'm afraid I'll lose my smile."

She stared at him, but when he made no move to open his eyes she reached out and poked his forehead. His eyes immediately fluttered open. "Are you bored, Shinigami?" She asked. "Why not go and spend time with some of the new recruits?"

"I'm not that desperate," he said, grabbing her hand and placing it down on the stretch of table between them.

"It's strange to see you feeling down."

"Feeling down?" He tilted his head, giving her his usual heart stopping smile. "When? Who?"

Her mouth twitched and she fought to suppress a smirk.

"Ora~!" He let out, looking at her with intensity. "Did I just see a smile?"

She schooled her expression back to neutral. "You're imagining things."

He stood, grabbing her cheeks and pushing them upwards with his thumbs. "Ne~! Ne~! One more time! Come on," he put more force as she tried to push him away. To no avail. "Smile, my dear! Smile!"

Her pleas came out muffled as she tried to get him to stop, but after a while he did so on his own. Smiling happily at her even when she shot him a glare, rubbing at her abused cheeks. He could act so childish, but when the situation called for it he turned serious at the drop of a hat. Almost as if he had two split personalities. But, of course, that wasn't the case. He was just naturally hard to read – hard to handle.

"Shouldn't you be out reaping souls?" Cheryll asked with disdain.

"Perhaps," he muttered, smiling away. "Although the alternative is staying here with you."

"How positively scandalous of you," sarcasm oozed from her words. He was plotting something. That much, she knew.

Shinigami's smile widened. If he was going to plant the seed of desire then now would be the best time to tempt her, make her want. It was the last thing he needed to do before he left. If he let it fester long enough then he wondered what kind of expression she'd make when next she saw him. Perhaps he could tackle her to the ground in greeting. Would she object or be delighted by the closeness? Or if he left would she just go ahead and forget about him altogether? That was certainly the smart move. But he didn't want to formulate any logical conjecture because there was a certain thrill to not knowing and he reveled in it.

He leaned over the desk and caught her chin, running his thumb over her bottom lip. "May I suggest something?"

Her eyes widened. She had never taken Undertaker as the type that would ask for permission to do or say anything. So, why now? She took a breath, before answering, "What?"

"Let's…" He bent down to whisper against her lips. "Be complicit."

A few days later, while supposedly off on a job, he had completely disappeared.

With the official brand of _deserter._

* * *

 ** _Present_**

 _..._

"My dear," Cheryll's head snapped up at the familiar voice that had completely shattered the silence of the archives. Her eyes widened and she almost dropped her pen at the sight of the one who stood at the door, pushing a cart filled with cinematic records inside. "Are you free?"

Shinigami stood there after years of being away like he belonged in these archives and had every right to be here. Cheryll quickly looked around to see that they were alone, before she turned her gaze back to the man before her. His hair was in his face – a chaotic nest and he donned clothes that looked like they had just been thrown on or slept in. Maybe both. Either way, they looked drab. But he was smiling and that grin made her feel at ease. It was obvious that he was quite happy as an Undertaker – though she had heard some disturbing things from Grell and the rest of the Retrieval Division that he was involved with some rather unsavory sorts.

That was only to be expected.

He got bored easily, after all.

"Shinigami, I ne—"

"Ah, I'm sorry to interrupt, but…" He turned to her, his ridiculous sleeves hanging in the air. "I go by Undertaker nowadays."

Her eye twitched at his nonchalance and she fought for her composure. Seems age had the opposite effect when it came to her patience. " _Undertaker,"_ she amended. "For the Queen's sake, _what—"_

"The Queen?" He tilted his head. "I'm not a fan."

"—are you doing here?"

"Why, you ask?" He held up one of the records. "To return these, my dear."

She had to wonder why in the world none of the other Reapers had bothered dealing with him when they already had information about his business and what he was doing. Perhaps it was because they knew that they didn't stand a chance. Yes, that was plausible. Cheryll removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose in exasperation. It seemed that he had only gotten more playful over the years. Apparent in his lax actions. They lacked the tiredness he used to have lingering on his person from when he was a Reaper. His shoulders were free from a burden of mindless duty, but they also looked to be shouldering an entirely new kind of burden. One she couldn't see. His façade had always been perfect.

It was so strange how he wore his heart on his sleeve, yet at the same time did not. She was better off trying to sort through all of Grell's pictures of the Phantomhive's butler, Sebastian Michaelis, than try and understand his twisted mind.

"Oh," her voice was sardonic and filled with challenge. "Do tell me all about _when_ you had taken those?"

"Why just a few nights ago!" He said, excitedly. Undertaker had somehow procured a few of his trademark bone cookies and was munching away. "You were so busy with work and staring at my statue that you didn't notice me at all. I didn't want to be a bother, knowing how you are about work."

As if that had stopped him before.

And wait…

Wait. Wait. Wait.

How long had this been going on? Was she the only one that hadn't seen him in so long? It was silent between them. The only sound that could be heard was his careless munching as they stared each other down. Cheryll was the first to give in, uncharacteristically throwing her hands in the air and mentally cursing herself for ever missing a man like this. She plopped back against the cushions of her seat and rubbed her temple, feeling a headache coming.

"…Are you mad?" Undertaker asked.

Cheryll opened her eyes to see him bent down at the waist, his face right in front of her. She couldn't see a thing behind the thick curtain of his bangs. "No."

He smiled at the response.

"So," he began, giving her a wide grin. "Did you think of me often? Personally, I liked the sight of your forlorn face."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "As a member of the Administrative Division, it is my duty to take back your death scythe, Underta—"

He cut her off, uncaring. "Did you want to see me again? Did you have the desire to hear my laughter or watch me smile?" His smile widened, as if to prove a point.

"Your death scythe," Cheryll continued onward, not forgetting her duty. "I need i—"

Undertaker frowned. "It seems I need to give you more time then. I don't want to pressure you into leaving this place with me," he said, coating his words with an extra dose of mockery. His frown turning into a pout. "I know how much you love it here."

"Will you leave this world – my world again?" She suddenly asked, dropping her previous train of thought. Her voice took on a harder tone, more serious – because apparently that was possible. "You can't change things. You can't move them around as you please and then just disappear."

Undertaker gave her his usual smile, but there was something different about that broad smile of his. It looked almost… excited.

"I'm leaving," he announced with zero hesitation even though he had left long ago. But this time was different. He gestured toward the walls of the archives. "What will you do in this world of yours?"

Was it finally time? Had he waited long enough? Was she going to reach out and grasp for him? He had purposely made a place for himself somewhere in her being all for this one moment, because he was sure that she'd be wonderful entertainment. What kind of expressions would she be able to make from now on? How confused would she get about anything and everything? He couldn't wait to find out and unlike the humans he manipulated, he had all the time in the world with her. There was even plenty of time to participate in games of self-indulgence and if it ever came to it, love.

He had so much to show her and she had so much to learn. It would be the start of a truly grand adventure.

"I'll leave it and chase you," she answered and he beamed.

"Why?" He asked, wanting to hear it from her lips. Needing to see her mouth form the words he was dying to hear. The anticipation, this feeling of being on the crossroads of a moment that would decide which road his future would take was almost better than the best of jokes. Almost.

She brushed his bangs up and met his eyes. Her heart stopped for a moment, before resuming at triple time. It pounded wildly in its cage as she swallowed the lump in her throat. Cheryll slowly built her resolve, mentally prompting herself to speak, as she let the walls of content and satisfaction fade away, tearing down their crumbling decade long remains.

Just when exactly had he wheedled his way into her good graces?

Well, no matter.

"Undertaker," she called, resolutely.

"Yes?"

"Teach me what it means to want."

He pulled back and buried his face in his sleeve covered hands in a way that could only be described as bashfulness. His smile was hidden and his body language screamed _delighted._ He looked absolutely giddy.

"Cheryll, my dear," he said, swiftly grabbing her hands and giving her a winning smile. "It would be my pleasure."

* * *

" _The question, love, is whether you want me enough to take the risk."_

 _-Lisa Kleypas_

* * *

 _A/N: This was my first time writing for this fandom, so don't hate me for not including other characters. I haven't read the manga in ages and I didn't want to make them come off as OOC. I made this a one-shot even though I could have made it into a pretty solid multi-fic because I don't think Undertaker should be taken in that high of a dosage. I mean, even writing him here was already difficult enough and I think this one-shot provided a nice, vague, yet satisfying ending._

…

 _ **PLEASE DON'T FORGET TO REVIEW!**_


	2. Extra

_Disclaimer: I don't own Kuroshitsuji._

* * *

 _ **Contagious Desire Extra © blob80**_

…

 _Fate plays games of sorrow,_

 _Luck loves to stab,_

 _Death awaits with surprise,_

 _But together with you, my dear,_

 _It all seems a bit more bearable._

* * *

Cheryll grunted, as her waist was squeezed beyond what could be considered common. Even for women of this age. Or perhaps she was just being overly dramatic—though she doubted it—she'd always worn the fitted suits of Reapers and had never envied the mortal women forced to walk around in tightly laced corsets and stiff layers. Yet, here she was in front of a full-length mirror in the dingy backroom of Undertaker's shop, being forced into a tight, dark dress that was surely half her size. Her bust practically spilled its meager top, popping out just as much as her widening eyes. Each squeeze was killing her and Undertaker's sultry smile certainly wasn't helping the situation.

"Ora~" he let out, pleased with himself. As the pain around her middle suddenly ceased, but a soft sting remained. Made more painful with each steady inhale. "You look lovely, my dear."

"Do I?" she all, but snapped.

"Terribly."

Words died in her throat, her mind unable to process anything other than the order it relayed to her lungs. She opted instead to glare at him. Something he merely continued to beam at, as he tilted his head in the direction of the mirror in a meaningful gesture. Knowing exactly what he meant, Cheryll turned to the dusty glass and stared at her reflection. A dainty woman of high social standing stared back in a deep blue dress that could have easily fed a dozen starving children. The glasses on her nose did little to the dress' overall appearance, and before she knew it, she found herself scowling at her reflection. Before she smoothed it back into her neutral mask.

Without a word, Undertaker offered his arm to her.

Cheryll stared at it like an insect that needed to be killed, before conceding to his silent motion. She placed her hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her away from the dreary confines of his— _their—_ shop.

Not much had happened since her grand decision to desert.

A few questions here and there. A rather heated argument between herself and William Spears, as he attempted to drag her back by force. That had ended with Undertaker somehow smiling evilly at him, until he let the affair rest. Everything else was just a whirl of random events strung together. Undertaker's shop, his teachings of how to embalm and beautify a body, his insane ramblings that he loved to share. Though he loved to hear her opinions about his utterings even more. Clearly, he was still trying to water the seed of desire within her. She didn't mind. But she wasn't particularly interested in his plans either. Perhaps with time, she would be. When she saw what it was he was so interested in, then she knew without a doubt that her own interest would be sparked. He had an interesting mind. One she wanted to dissect. And she knew him enough by now to know that he'd share his schemes soon. When the time presented itself at least. He was meticulous like that. Or perhaps he'd surprise her. She couldn't say.

With him, there were no certainties.

She'd met many people during her brief stay—most of them dead or as well as. A young earl and his demon butler, members of the Yard, men and women of the aristocracy; Undertaker was acquainted with them all. Sometimes she believed he had the whole of London under his thumb. But she knew that couldn't be the case. There was a Queen after all. Perhaps he just ruled the dregs of it. The dark underbelly inhabited by prostitutes, street urchins, and scum.

"Excuse me, Madam," a little boy walked up to them, snapping Cheryll from her thoughts. A poor little thing. His breaths were visible in the evening chill and his clothes spoke nothing of warmth. He held a tin cup up to her, seemingly having decided that it would be safer to approach her instead of Undertaker. Human women were supposedly known for the warm natures after all. "Any change to spare?"

She produced a single bill, not bothering to look at its amount. But from the way the boy's eyes widened, it must have been an absurdly large amount. He bowed repeatedly. A smile stretched across his lips, as he ran off into some back alley to wherever it was he so hurriedly needed to be on such a quiet day.

And they continued on their way.

Cheryll vaguely registered Undertaker humming the London Bridge nursery rhyme under his breath, his smile still in place. As they continued walking through the strangely calm streets. Men and women were setting up for a nighttime festival, and they quietly circled their stalls, peeking in on what they'd soon be selling, before the larger crowds came by. Men gawked as they passed, staring at her as if she were crazy. From their confused faces, it was clear to her that they were wondering what she was doing on the arm of London's resident mortician. And women were quick to turn their backs on them, whispering false rumors to the nearest person willing to listen. It was strange how human communities ran. Different they may be, but when it came to gossip there was nothing discernable from the rest of the world.

"What's on your mind, my dear?" Undertaker asked. "You've been awfully quiet."

"Your lack of glasses," she lied. "How can you see?"

"Sometimes blurs are more preferable to the horrors of clarity," he told her sagely. "Though in my case, instinct guides me."

"Your instincts then must be great, indeed, to be able to see so much."

"Step away from the looking glass and you'll come to realize a great number of things. It even comes with the added ability to sniff out a lie."

Her mouth twitched, before she schooled it into a thin line. "Is that so?"

"Why, yes. So, won't you tell me what's on your mind? Or shall I pry the answer from you? I do adore games. Even guessing ones."

"I am in no mood for another one of your plays, Undertaker."

"Yet you don't answer." He frowned, before steering her toward a nearby sweets shop.

"I'm just observing…" Cheryll conceded with a sigh. She closed her eyes and allowed him to bring her where he wished. "The humans, that is. Strange and fragile things. I can see why they caught your eye."

His smile lit up and she could just imagine the flash of his eyes beneath those ridiculous bangs. Undertaker's current appearance may not have held all the menacing passion it once did, but it was certainly cute. And it fit him strangely well. Though she still preferred the familiarity of his previous mask. Still, she had to give him credit. He could assume a startling number of veneers, yet was still somehow able to retain all of his obsessive enthusiasm.

"Tragically beautiful things, aren't they?" he said, squeezing her hand that lingered on his arm. His fingers were as cold as hers. His touch, however, was a forgiving thing. And she could hardly imagine him wielding a death scythe. Perhaps it was because of his absurd hairstyle. "Though they're very lucky, wouldn't you agree?"

"Lucky?" she asked. He nodded enthusiastically. And from the smile spreading across his lips, she knew he wanted her to ask. So, she did. He seemed to have a strange fascination with desire. "How so?"

"Because they're going to die, of course!" he exclaimed, garnering the attention of a few curious passerby's. Some had children, and their parents promptly covered their ears, as they forced them away from the _'strange couple.'_ "All of these humans you see today were the chosen bunch out of billions of others that could have been born. They'll experience pain, hardship, love, and death. I don't know whether I should feel sorry or happy for them. What's even more amazing is that many willingly choose to extend their sad lives. And isn't that just wonderful?"

"I suppose it is… shall I say, curious?" Cheryll muttered, unsure. As she urged Undertaker to continue walking. He'd stopped in the middle of the street and the lack of movement left her cold. "Though not interesting enough to quell me into a series of questions."

"Then what is?" he asked, briefly touching his head on the top of her own.

"Your own thoughts on the matter," she said seriously. "Your mind is very complex, Undertaker."

"You flatter me." He laughed, hiding his smile behind his free sleeve. "Though I am pleased to see you wanting, my dear. No matter how small your desire, I promise to both cultivate and satisfy it."

"For what purpose?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. Though she knew she wouldn't receive a proper response. Those were rare, indeed. And when he merely smiled down at her, she left it be. Cheryll's gaze rolled away from his disarming grin and over to a nearby shop, where a beautiful evening gown sat on display for everyone to see. It was an expensive thing. And she found herself staring at the out-of-place teddy bear at its side.

She must have been staring for longer than she realized because Undertaker was suddenly tugging her into the small shop and, true to his previous words, placed the plushy safely in her surprised arms with nothing more than an entirely too wide smile.

* * *

"Tired?" Undertaker asked, slowing his steps to match hers. "We've been out for quite a while."

They'd been walking non-stop, passing by shops and sneaking up on a few of his more amusing acquaintances. It was truly a pleasant day. And though he found amusement in watching her squirm uncomfortably in her dress, work never ceased. Seems even in the mortal plane, he couldn't fully escape the demands of his trade. Especially in a city as dangerous as London. Where people fell as easily—and as frequently—as flies.

"I'd like to get out of these clothes," Cheryll told him. "I'm having difficulty breathing."

Undertaker gasped in mock scandal. "Why, I didn't realize I was making you feel so… daring. Was our outing too adventurous enough for your clearly perverted tho—"

"Undertaker," she called, placing a finger to his lips, successfully silencing him. His lips split into his trademark grin against her skin and she shivered at the sensation.

"Yes?" he whispered.

"Hush."

"Of course, my dear."

"Well, then…" she began, gathering the absurd amount of things they bought—sweets, mostly—and placing her free arm back in his. "Shall we head back?"

"Is that truly what you want?" he asked.

She muttered something that sounded like confirmation.

"What was that? I didn't quite hear you," he said, voice dropping into a pitch that could only be considered whiny. "Speak louder, my dear."

Cheryll turned, not quite smiling. But there was something in her eyes that made him slip his fingers from her grasp and place them over her face to pull her stubborn cheeks up into a full-blown smile. She tried to bat him away. To no avail. Despite his appearance, he wasstill a legendary Reaper. While she spent most of her own time a slave to the Administrative Division.

"Come now," he pouted. "Will you really make me force it from you? You know I have no qualms about forcing you to smile. Sometimes I wonder if a glasgow grin might make you more agreeable."

Cheryll wanted to scowl, but his fingers were relentless. And when he finally loosened his hold for a brief moment, her cheeks stung from the pressure. Undertaker looked at her expectantly and though she didn't particularly hate that expression, she didn't like it either. Rubbing her cheek, she dropped it in favor of brushing his bangs from his eyes in order to expose the cool chartreuse beneath.

"I said," she emphasized, tiredly exhaling, as her eyes involuntarily traced the scar that ran along his face. " _Yes,_ I _want_ to go home."

He bent down, nose slipping past hers in a way that had her cheeks flaring all the way up to her ears. But she didn't dare move away. His presence and emotions were too immense. Too encompassing. His affection was equally so.

"Cheryll, heart," he whispered, "was that so hard?"

* * *

 _A/N: I was bored and since I just finished my first novel, I decided, "Well, damn, I feel like writing something more on the sophisticated side. It certainly can't hurt to get my fanfiction groove back while awaiting responses for my query letters." And so this epilogue was born. This is also a sort of apology for removing Demonic Appraisal from my account, as I wanted to recycle the characters. Please excuse any typos. I just typed it up today. Anywho, I hope everyone enjoyed this. Even if it did lack action and all. As I said, it's mostly just a one-two step thing, so I could get back into my fanfiction groove._

…

 _Please review!_


	3. Author's Note

I released a fantasy novel. You can find more information on my original fiction blog. The URL is on my profile. (Please manually input because FF links are currently malfunctioning.)

That is all.


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